


the barefoot bard

by wanderingwhaler



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Foot Fetish, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, I Don't Even Know, I don't even like feet, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier/Other only implied, M/M, Nothing happens except between Geralt and Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingwhaler/pseuds/wanderingwhaler
Summary: An old injury to Jaskier's foot has consequences neither he nor Geralt could have anticipated.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 128





	the barefoot bard

It was, all things considered, a minor injury. A nuisance, no doubt. And a risk for infection. But it wasn’t, barring a truly fucked up intervention from Destiny, a terrible thing. It would have been much worse for the bandit to have severed the Achille’s tendon, for instance. Instead, they had speared their knife straight through Jaskier’s foot, through the bones and ligaments. A clean through and through intended to keep Jaskier from moving while the bandit crawled away, the coward.

Jaskier had screamed loud enough that Geralt imagined the trees bending away from him in the force of it but, to Geralt’s small pleasure, had managed to kick the bandit’s head hard enough to knock him out, leaving the man sprawled in the dirt next to the growing pool of blood leaking from Jaskier’s boot. Easy pickings for an enraged Geralt who had just finished off five of the pack of six that had accosted them on the road.

After throwing the bodies into the deeper shade of the forest, Geralt had sat Jaskier down in dirt, knife still through his boot and foot, so he could rinse the dirt off the end before pulling it through and increasing the risk of infection. Jaskier had handled it silently, thank the gods, while staring intensely at Roach with a queasy look on his face. He let out a few tears when Geralt removed the knife and then the boot and sock but once again, Geralt felt his approval growing by his bard’s stoicism.

Before quickly berating himself in his mind for being happy that Jaskier had gotten better at being _hurt_. The bard should be in court where the worst injury is the headache from a party gone on too long into the night. He should not be used to stabbings. By time Geralt was finished wrapping the foot and reaching new levels of Jaskier related guilt, he was ready to agree when Jaskier asked to ride Roach.

***

A matter that would have been entirely separate from the foot maiming, if Melitele had any blessings to give Geralt, was Jaskier’s repeated companion in Rinde. Geralt never met her but without fail when the two of them would pass through Rinde, Jaskier would disappear for the night. And if Geralt wasn’t staying, they would part ways for a while before inevitably running into each other once again in a baffling small town in the middle of nowhere. Geralt was not upset. He did not feel abandoned. He never, ever wondered what was so special about this woman, that Jaskier was willing to risk losing months of inspiration from hunts and travels with his one-and-only muse. Jaskier’s words, not Geralt’s. Geralt threw up a little bit in his mouth when he thought them to himself, but as a witcher, he wasn’t made for throwing up, so he dismissed it as soon as it happened and that was that.

But Rinde. Geralt had already spent a dozen nights, that were not lonely, actually, not lonely in any way, and had abandoned the bard to his pursuits four times. Not that Geralt counted. So, when months had past since the knife speared Jaskier’s foot and the matter wasn’t even a blimp in Geralt’s mind anymore, and they found themselves in Rinde? Well. It wasn’t like anything would change.

Geralt had not become more worried about the bard’s safety and he didn’t particularly care whether or not Jaskier had a troubling habit of telling him all sorts of stories about when Jaskier got into trouble without Geralt around, stories that usually ended up with something as not-actually-upsetting as, “I had to get a whore to pop my shoulder back into place, Geralt,” or “So that’s where those scars came from, Geralt. Never bet against a man with a lame horse playing to win coin for a farrier.” It was remarkable that the idiot was alive.

Therefore, it didn’t make any sense for Geralt to head directly to the inn he knew always drew the hottest baths when Jaskier had turned to look at him with a parting remark on his tongue. Geralt wasn’t concerned and he wasn’t waiting for Jaskier. He wanted a bath. He had killed several drowners a few rainstorms ago and the rain for all it’s trying did not do a good job at cleaning his, so to say, creases. Jaskier, of course, had been a fair distance away from the drowners and when it had rained, he had been bundled under Geralt’s waterproof cloak because otherwise, Geralt would have had to listen to him later trying to sing with a runny nose. That had happened exactly once and Geralt thought about never forgiving him for the experience. His completely justified frustration and resolve to never do anything nice for Jaskier ever again, since he clearly was a monster, lasted exactly up to the next time it started to rain and he was roughly pulling of his cloak and wrapping Jaskier into it with single-minded focus. The beaming smile and sweet thank you he had gotten in return was absolutely not worth the irritation of rain running down his back. It wasn’t.

It didn’t matter the reason Geralt decided to spend the night in Rinde; he had already paid the coin and settled into the near boiling bath (he suspected they were trying to boil him to death out of a hatred for witchers but since he appreciated getting warm enough to compare to the hot springs at Kaer Morhen, he welcomed this brand of passive aggressive retaliation). Jaskier had skipped his way out of the inn once he made Geralt promise to not leave “at the ass crack of dawn, Geralt, we can’t all wake up before the cock crows like bloody heathens.” Geralt had hummed; Jaskier took it as agreement. Geralt was in the tub and Jaskier was likely doing filthy, terrible things with his treasured companion.

Geralt unclenched his teeth. He was _relaxing_. He was in a nice, boiling bath and he was going to have a nice, blessedly silent evening and then rise before dawn. If he had some errands to run in the morning that would keep Roach in the stable long enough for Jaskier to wander back, that was nobody’s business. Geralt probably did need rations. And Jaskier had been whining for days now about candied apples. Jaskier liked to chew and suck all the caramel off before handing the apple over to Geralt to have a turn before the remains were handed to Roach. Maybe he could look for a candied apple in the morning. Just because he had been craving apples himself and Roach always deserved a treat. It just made sense, economically, to satisfy Jaskier’s sweet tooth with the same purpose. Geralt was frugal and heartless. A proper monster.

He soaked for a bit, heaved a heavy sigh at himself, and levered himself up out of the tub. He was tired from the drowners, that was it. The rains afterwards did him no favors either. Nor had the walking because Jaskier had claimed the rain made his foot feel funny and he’d feel safer riding on Roach. Geralt was ready to bash his head in against the walls, except the walls looked only slightly stronger than a threadbare cloth, which served to irritate him further.

He was scanning the room looking for something other than his own swords that would be strong enough to knock him out if he hit himself hard enough with it when he smelled Jaskier. Geralt initially dismissed it as something in his pack that smelled like the bard. Except the smell was getting stronger and it wasn’t what Jaskier had been exuding the past few months. The man had walked around smelling like cinnamon rolls and vanilla for months. Now, the usual warm bread, cinnamon, and vanilla smelled burnt. It was the smell of Jaskier deeply, deeply upset.

Geralt was ready when Jaskier slipped into the room, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Bard.” By Geralt’s standards, it was an engraved invitation for the bard to talk. Hells, by Jaskier’s usual standards, Geralt might as well had written him a poem about how sharing is caring.

“Ah! Geralt. Still up I see? Oh, a bath, don’t mind if I do. I’ll just slip in, and be a dear and go to bed, I’m sure you’re tired. Absolutely knackered. Apologies for the tight fit, I know you weren’t intending to share a bed,” Jaskier cut himself off with a wince. The burnt bread smell thickened.

Geralt was frozen. He normally didn’t have to engage this much for Jaskier to keep talking. He took a breath and regretted it immediately because of the overbearing smell of _unhappy_ pouring off of Jaskier into the tiny enclosed space they were sharing now. Apparently.

“We can leave at the ass crack of dawn then. If you’re here.” A call back, and a good one. It proved Geralt was listening to Jaskier earlier. Jaskier would normally latch on to that and his mood would boost until the vanilla almost eclipsed the cinnamon.

A tear fell, thunderously, into the bathwater, where Jaskier was bent over it. Neither moved a muscle. They didn’t breathe. They both stood where they were as the ripples from the tear condemned them both. Jaskier sniffed.

“Maybe no bath tonight, I’ll go see if I can find another room. Absolutely nothing is wrong, I am leaving.” Jaskier kept his face tilted away from Geralt and it served Geralt well because it let him sneak up on Jaskier until he was close enough to cut him off.

“Jaskier,” Geralt paused in hopes that Jaskier would simply read his mind and spare him the physical effort of forcing words past his tongue. No such luck. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. He sniffed a bit. Finally, Jaskier sighed and slumped down, looking humiliated. Geralt could now smell a bit of wine on his breath. He didn’t think about it. He simply stood there and waited for Jaskier to tell him what had happened.

“It’s actually very embarrassing. And I am completely sure that you will regret speaking of it, if you have me do so. Let’s just go to bed. This night never happened. It’s a dream, you see. You’re dreaming. Go back to bed.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes, alright. Not my best work but I’ve had a very stressful night and I think I have been permanently scarred by tonight’s dealings so if you will.” He went to move past Geralt but Geralt reached out and held his upper arms.

Geralt blinked at his hands on the bard. There without any consideration of his brain, which had absolutely failed to give that order. Perhaps he was cursed. But that would have to wait until tomorrow when they could find a witch. Now he had to deal with his bard.

“Do I need to go kill something?” He wanted to smack himself in the face for not realizing sooner. Jaskier must have come across a fearsome beast and is now ashamed for running away and not fighting like Geralt would have done. He wanted to reassure the bard that running was the best choice for a man like him, but he would wait until Jaskier told him what manner of beast he would need to be slaying tonight for daring to scare his traveling companion. It was important that others perceived the bard off limits. It was logical; saved time in the long run. Probably.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt. The redness around the rims just made the blue shine brighter. His lips were plump with blood, irritated from his chewing on them. Geralt watched as Jaskier pushed his lips together in a firm line and furrowed his eyebrows. He scrutinized Geralt’s face before seemingly relented.

“I, for the first time in my considerable experience, made a woman cry,” Jaskier looked a bit like he was expecting Geralt to hit him. His bard was a moron sometimes.

“Where was the monster?” Jaskier needed to get back on track. Looking at the bard this closely was filling Geralt with all sorts of emotions, which normally meant he needed to kill something or sometimes even three somethings to feel back to sorts.

“What? There was no monster! Just me and lovely Mariel, in our time honored tradition of – actually that’s not important – when she saw something she didn’t like and it turned her off completely, which is fine, consent is sexy, that could very well be the end of it, except she felt so bad for finding me so unappealing after all these years, she started crying!”

Jaskier pulled away from the witcher and put his hands in his hair, walking around the room, bouncing between bed and bath. “So, I was trying to comfort her, but she kept crying and asking me to put my shoes back on, like I was some sort of monster. And of course! My feelings were hurt, Geralt. I have a great many feelings. Many great big feelings that were very hurt and shocked. But despite that, she was upset so I tried to make her feel better and eventually she calmed down and I was told to bugger off, thanks for the happy memories, never come back, so sorry it ended like this, your feet are now atrocious.”

“Your feet are…monstrous?” Geralt felt like he was trying to solve one of those awful puzzles the trolls had become fond of for a few decades when he was a young witcher. He stared at Jaskier’s boots. “Were you cursed?”

Jaskier stared at him before gesturing wildly down to his legs. “No! They aren’t cursed or monstrous. I have a scar! From the stab happy bandit months ago.”

_Ah._ Geralt nodded. “I see. Whores are sometimes put off by my scars. You need many more to be an actual monster. She was an idiot.”

Jaskier’s face flushed. He looked angrier now than upset, a more familiar sight. The cinnamon was almost as strong as the burning bread scent. “You,” he punctuated this with a finger thrust into Geralt’s chest, “are not a monster. Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there, Mr. King of Self Flagellation. Not today, no sir. We are feeling bad for me tonight because my favorite, nay, _only_ foot fetishist companion has officially deemed my feet totally unfuckable. Because of one scar! It doesn’t count as two, despite being on both sides because they came from the same stabbing! Okay? It’s one. And my feet are ruined, and I made her cry with my awful, atrocious no-longer-fuckable feet. So, my night has been bad, Geralt. Don’t make it about you and your sexy scars.”

There was a lot to unpack there. They both fell silent for a moment.

Jaskier started up again, “Well, I hate to say I told you so but I did say you wouldn’t want to talk about this so if we could pretend this entire trip to Rinde never happened, I would be ever so grateful. Now, perhaps you should turn away because I’m about to take my shoes off to change clothes and I’ve been reliably informed it’s an awful sight to behold.”

“Foot,” Geralt managed.

“Yes; ugly thing. Wouldn’t want to offend you and I’m feeling quite delicate right now, Geralt. I cannot console you if you become agitated. Of course, I will, I am a wonderful best friend, but my feelings will be hurt, and I’ll only cry more. After you were done of course. Because I care.” Jaskier was sniffing again.

_Fuck_. “You said, foot fetish.” Boots hit the floor.

“Yes. That is what I said.” Jaskier’s cheeks were turning red. The burning smell was creeping back up.  
  
“Hmm.” Socks were flung into the corner for Geralt to inevitably pick up in the morning and stuff inside Jaskier’s boots for him to find upon finally waking. It saved time, that was all.

Geralt watched as Jaskier climbed into the bed and tried to make the too short blanket cover all of him. Any other night, Jaskier would have left his feet and ankles out because he liked to grip the blankets in his arms and bunch them around his head like a shield against the world. This time however, Jaskier left his arms and neck bare as he kicked the blanket down to completely hide his feet.

“How?” Geralt asked, meaning very many things and trusting Jaskier to know which one to answer.

“How do I expect you to get in the bed with my deformed body? I don’t know Geralt, the same way you did last night before I was branded as a man with unfuckable feet.” That….was not a question Geralt was thinking.

“How does someone fuck your feet?” Geralt felt like he deserved coin for this. This was harder than his last two jobs combined.

Jaskier was very, very still underneath his blanket.

“I can still see you. You’re thinking of frogs.” Geralt explained.

Jaskier blustered and twisted around to stare at him, disbelievingly.

“Really. I can see you even if you’re still.”

“I _know_ that! You think I’d confuse you with a frog? Which, by the way, I believe can see you even if you don’t move, I don’t know what you’re thinking of.” Jaskier looked baffled.

“Hmm. Not frogs, then. How do you fuck feet?”

“Gods above and below, Geralt! You can’t ask a man how feet are fucked! You like to point out you’ve been alive since Melitele created the damned stars, surely, you’ve come across a foot man or woman before in all your travels. Never had a fine lady ask you to take your feet and put them in her lap?”

“That’s how then? You put your feet in their lap and that leads to fucking?”

“Are you possessed? Are you actually dying? Have you drunk anything funny smelling, Geralt, I swear on your great massive manly tits, if you drank something suspicious even with your special witchy senses, I will be so cross with you.” Jaskier looked close to an aneurism. That was normally reserved for unexpectedly seeing Valdo Max in a tavern.

Geralt grunted. “Didn’t drink anything. Just don’t know. Or know why you’re so upset.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. Sighed. Sighed again. Geralt shifted back and forth. Maybe this was a bad idea. He should have just gone to bed when Jaskier first told him to.

“A foot fetishist finds certain feet attractive. Looking at them makes them excited. And the activities are varied but generally speaking, the person who likes feet will kiss and otherwise _utilize_ the feet attached to their partner to satisfaction. Like,” Geralt heard Jaskier’s teeth grinding, “rubbing against them. Or sucking. Or something. I’m not an expert, Geralt. I only do it with Mariel but it was such a novel and, yes, exciting experience, that I am sad that it ended and that it ended with my vanity being crushed to dust over a gods damned scar on my gods damned foot.”

Geralt wanted to be sure. The why of wanting to be sure escaped him, but he couldn’t help himself. “You like it when they used your feet to get off.”

Jaskier made a funny screaming sound in the back of his throat, eyes still slammed shut.

“Yes. Yes, I fucking liked it. But it’s not happening again, so let’s just _forget everything_.”

“Hmm.”

“That wasn’t your agreeing hum, Geralt. Why aren’t you agreeing? Geralt?!” Jaskier broke off with a squeak. Geralt had knelt down at the bottom of the bed and pulled the blanket up over Jaskier’s feet, exposing the pale extremities and surprisingly delicate ankles.

Geralt took the foot that had been stabbed into his hands. Jaskier was still and quiet and Geralt resisted reminding him that he could still see him if he was frozen. Jaskier was smart enough to remember, when he wasn’t being an idiot.

He had seen Jaskier’s feet many times, even up close like this when he was bandaging the injury or applying salve, but never with the thought in his mind of, “ _Is this attractive?_ ” It was hard to see the top or bottom of the foot, the way he was sitting, so he shuffled forward until he was kneeling a little closer to Jaskier. He slid a hand up Jaskier’s calf to bend his knee so his foot could be planted against Geralt’s thigh.

“Hm.” His foot was well formed. His toes were of pleasing length. The skin was paler than the skin of Jaskier’s face and arms, thanks to always being hidden away from the sun. Concealed, like the rest of Jaskier’s body. That was an interesting thought. This was a soft part of Jaskier. Calloused from the road, yes, but normally hidden. Geralt had seen less of the soft sole of Jaskier’s feet than he had seen the mans cock getting in and out of baths.

“Uh, Geralt? What are you?” Jaskier cut himself off again. Geralt paid him no mind. He was busy running his thumbs over the top of Jaskier’s foot, feeling the tendons beneath the thin skin, watching the toes flex against the cloth of his pants. He slipped a thumb down into the arch, running his finger nail against the delicate skin.

Cinnamon floated into the air between them. Geralt lifted the foot and pushed until Jaskier had his thigh bent back over his stomach and Geralt could get a proper look at one of Jaskier’s most hidden parts. His cock twitched in his pants.

Geralt looked from the foot in front of his face to examine Jaskier. “Okay?”

Jaskier was flushed. “Very confused but also on board with. This. Don’t stop? Unless you want to or if you don’t like me. Sometimes I get confused, like right now, with you touching my feet, but also in general, I know I’m a nuisance. So again, I’m confused and will be upset if you’re doing whatever this is without liking me, even a little.”

Really. His bard was so slow. “I like you fine, Jaskier.” And with that, he leaned forward and sucked Jaskier’s big toe into his mouth.

“Oh holy fuck,” Jaskier was already panting, the idiot. “Oh fuck. Oh, fuck Geralt.”

Geralt only hummed and started to suck. He laved his tongue against the underside, feeling the callous built up from years on the road. He barely let that one out of his mouth before he was biting over the others. His thumbs dug into the arch and Jaskier moaned. Jaskier’s other foot came to push down on his thigh.

“Your feet are perfect.” Well, that was a little incriminating. But Jaskier just started to smell like vanilla and cinnamon and baking sweet bread so Geralt supposed that was okay. He turned to licking between his thumbs, imagining he was licking into another secreted spot on Jaskier’s body. He grunted at the thought and raised Jaskier’s leg enough to bit at the heel. When he started sucking on the instep, like he was trying to bruise the delicate skin with his mouth, Jaskier’s other foot slipped from his thigh to his hardening cock.

He grunted in surprise but redoubled his efforts with the foot in front of him. The other was rubbing up and down and Geralt spared a hand to reach down and tear the button off his pants. He spoke between sucking and biting Jaskier’s toes. “Tell me what you want.”

His eyes were wide and so blue that something in Geralt felt like it was melting. “I want to touch you. And I want to touch myself. While you do that.” He stopped talking so Geralt assumed he was finished and licked up to his ankle to reward him.

Geralt pulled himself out of his torn pants and left his cock to Jaskier’s clumsy administrations with his foot. Geralt was leaking between Jaskier’s toes and he twitched upwards when the arch of his foot cupped the crown of his cock beautifully.

It was no longer enough to just touch and kiss Jaskier’s foot. He left one hand supporting the foot by the heel while he continued to suck and lick. His other travelled along the back of Jaskier’s calf and thigh, until he ran into the crease and swell of Jaskier’s ass.

Jaskier was stroking himself and Geralt paused to watch the ruddy cock being jerked by Jaskier’s hands. He wondered what those hands would feel like on him, but it only brought his attention to how the foot rubbing against him felt. He rocked his hips forward a bit and settled into a rhythm that sent sparks up and down his spine.

He dipped his hand into Jaskier’s shorts and pushed his hand under Jaskier’s balls so his thumb could rest directly on Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier was whining and speaking again but Geralt was having a hard time focusing on three things at once.

The foot on his cock pressed harder and in return, Geralt rubbed his thumb over Jaskier’s entrance. He wouldn’t penetrate the bard without oil of some kind, but he imagined his mouth loosening up the muscle or pouring some seed oil on the bard and working him open with his fingers until Jaskier cried. Jaskier was pretty when he cried. If he was crying from pleasure, because of Geralt, well. What was the harm?

Geralt noticed his own orgasm building up inside him. The smell of cinnamon was overwhelming, and he was drooling over Jaskier as he licked along the veins along the bridge of the foot. His face felt slick with his own spit and he liked it. He wanted to rub his face against Jaskier’s until Jaskier shone with Geralt’s saliva as well. He wanted to bath the bard entirely with his tongue until their scents were inseparable.

Maybe next time, Geralt thought to himself and started moving his thumb in slow, firm circles. Jaskier’s hand flew over his cock before tensing up all over and coming all over himself. His toes curled hard over the head of Geralt’s dick and pushed him over the edge. His come landed on Jaskier’s foot.

He set down the one still wet from his attention and guided the other to his mouth to clean. It wasn’t until he was done that that he looked up to see Jaskier staring at him. Open mouth, panting from the exertion of laying there and having an orgasm pulled from his body.

“Your feet are fine.” Geralt said again. He pressed a final kiss into the arch of the foot that still smelled like his release before setting that down to move up to lay beside the bard.

“You know… I’m starting to believe that ‘fine’ from you is a high compliment indeed,” Jaskier laughed, a little shakily.

“Hm.”

“Oh! The agreeing hum! You do like me! This is wonderful. You know, what we just did was absolutely lovely, and I think you are the sexiest man that ever graced the continent, no don’t argue, I’m a bard, I know sexy, so next time, you should follow up on that teasing you did tonight and fuck me.”

“Would have but we don’t have oil that isn’t poisonous.”

“Excellent decision making. Yet another point in your favor. Sexy and smart. I do love a double threat. Except, you do kill things very nicely. Very sexy when you do so but the strength is there. That’s it. You’re a triple threat. I don’t make the rules, Geralt.”

“Do you feel better? About your feet? And?” Geralt meant to say, ‘and everything else,’ but Jaskier had already started talking.

“My feet? I love my feet. I will cherish my feet for the rest of my life for what they gave me tonight. I’m writing a ballad as we speak about feet and the pleasures that can be taken by them in the right hands. The Barefoot Bard and the Wolf? Too on the nose? Barefoot Maiden and the Wolf then? Must let the audience wonder.”

“Not sad anymore, I mean.” Geralt wanted to growl, but a prostitute once informed him, smelling only slightly of fear, that it was poor form to growl at anyone who had gotten him off within ten minutes of the fact.

“I have never been happier,” Jaskier tilted his head up to stare into Geralt’s eyes. “Really. I’ve wanted this since I was eighteen. I never imagined my feet would be so heavily involved and I’m ashamed at my lack of creativity in my youth, I’ll tell you that. I’ve wanted you forever and I’ll keep wanting you forever. So, if you could just manage to keep wanting me, feet or otherwise, I don’t think I can ask for a better life.” Jaskier looked earnest and happy and Geralt was feeling warm despite not having a sliver of too short blanket. It was the eyes. And maybe the cheeks. The whole face in combination was quite an effect. Even a witcher couldn’t be immune.

He leaned in and captured Jaskier’s lips with his own. His bard tasted like wine and happiness and Geralt was feeling too many things, so he pulled back just enough for them to share breath. Jaskier whimpered, eyes closed.

“I do. And I will. Want you.” He tried to sound sincere, not only because he was but because he didn’t know if he could say it again without a fortnight at least to rest.

Jaskier sniffed again but he still smelled of vanilla and contentment. “That’s settled then. Now, today has been the best day of my entire life and I am absolutely knackered. I’d like to fall asleep in the arms of the man I love and then we can have another round in the morning when you wake me up at dawn. I’ve been meaning to suck your cock. Have I mentioned that?”

Geralt’s cock twitched and he sent a glare down his body. Not now. He settled and pulled his bard in close. Jaskier’s head was tucked under Geralt’s chin and he clutched the blanket between their torsos, while tangling their legs together.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier’s breath moved across his chest. “Sleep. I love you, Geralt.”

Geralt waited until Jaskier was asleep before mouthing the words back. _Love you._ He’d keep practicing until he could say it every day. In the meantime, while Jaskier slept, he thought about where in the city he may find a candied apple and if Jaskier would let him lick the sweetness off his face when he was done with it.

Geralt closed his eyes and decided Rinde was a pretty nice place, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> *stares off into space* ...this isn't even my fetish..... it's like a foot lovin ghost stole my body for three hours while I word vomited all this into word to share with you all. I just. Present to you this mystery?
> 
> edited 11.15.20 bc it was driving me crazy that the fandom was different than the other one


End file.
